Bonfire of the Damned
by Mertiya
Summary: Geralf has worked for months on his very first stitched creation; all he wants to do is show it off. And if he's very lucky, his parents' friend Ludevic, Geralf's idol, will be there to witness the birth of a masterpiece.


The flickering lamplight played across the room, and Geralf kicked his feet at the old harpsichord bench. No matter how many times he had said, "I'm almost fifteen, Mummy, can I _please_ sit with the adults now?" his mother invariable responded with, "No, darling, you and your sister are so talented, we must show you off, mustn't we?" And then his father told him not to disobey his mother, Mummy objected to however Daddy had spoken, and nine times out of ten, they had a fight. Geralf did not like it when they fought. Half the time, it ended with Daddy beating him for upsetting his mother. Tonight, however, he had hatched quite a different plan.

He had been working in the basement for months now, avoiding Gisa, who was sure to tell Mummy and Daddy, or worse, interfere herself. And now he was absolutely certain that his creation, which had eight limbs, three hands, and an elongated neck, and was about eight feet tall, would be enough to impress everyone at this evening's dinner gathering. All he had to do was wait for Ludevic to arrive—as it was the brilliant young necro-alchemist Geralf was most determined to impress—then signal Ignatius (whom he had named after the servant who most often held him still while Father beat him) to rise through the floorboards, and _then_ they'd see that he was a grown-up. Ludevic would certainly compliment him. In some of his more detailed fantasies, he had even thought of Ludevic offering then and there to take him on as an apprentice.

Mummy was nodding at him from across the room. Geralf rolled his eyes and began to play—poorly, he thought, but not as poorly as Gisa's singing, which soon joined him. Neither of them enjoyed these performances, but Gisa took solace in Geralf's displeasure, and rarely said so to their mother or father. "Look what it gets you," she said, and then poked at one of his bruises.

At least he could play this particular piece from memory. It didn't require him to pay much attention to the instrument, and he could instead watch the door. Already an hour into dinner, which was later than Ludevic normally arrived, but Geralf had checked the invitations very carefully, and he knew Ludevic had sent a response indicating his attendance. Surely he would be here. Geralf's stomach turned over slightly with nerves, but he firmly shoved them away.

Several minutes later, his faith was rewarded when he saw Ludevic's coachwoman enter the building. Perfect. Advance notice meant that he could activate the little device he had prudently hidden beneath the harpsichord bench; Ignatius would arrive about the same time that Ludevic did, as a surprise gift for him. Smiling to himself, Geralf paused to turn the page and use his other hand to slide the switch into the "on" position. Cleverly done, he congratulated himself. Only Gisa appeared to have noticed, and she was pretty much always glaring at him for _something_.

Minutes ticked by, and Ludevic did not appear. Geralf could feel his stomach twisting into a knot, but he tried to reassure himself. Sometimes it took some time to get the horses properly stabled—Ludevic didn't normally do such a thing himself, but there was a first time for everything. Or perhaps, Geralf thought, a little desperately, he had gotten distracted by a new inspiration. Geralf couldn't be the only person who had occasionally found that hours had escaped him after a moment's stroke of genius.

His playing became slowly more erratic as he craned his neck at the door, until finally Mummy looked up and fixed him with a cold expression. Geralf cringed, lost his place, and the music ended in a sudden crashing cacophony of discordant chords. Gisa stumbled as well, her song fading out in the next moment. Before Geralf could think of what to do next, the floorboards near the door trembled. _Oh, no. Ignatius, wait._ But he had no other communication device, nothing to stop Ignatius once he had been summoned.

Gisa was the first to notice, and she pointed at the floorboards and shrieked theatrically. Not, Geralf thought bitterly, because she was frightened, but more probably because she enjoyed being the center of attention.

Despite the fact that Ludevic was nowhere to be seen, it was very satisfying to watch Ignatius tear up the floorboards and proceed to go on a rampage. And the elegance with which he moved—Geralf was unbearably proud of himself. He did feel that more of the guests might have waited around and admired Ignatius's construction, perhaps compliment how well he moved on his six legs. Surely, Geralf thought morosely, if Ludevic had been there _he_ wouldn't have run away screaming or—even worse!—tried to hack at poor Ignatius's neck with a rusty sword. Fortunately, after making a thorough mess of the dining room, his creation left through one of the walls, not having sustained a great deal of damage. With luck, he would be able to track it down shortly.

The guests having left, Geralf clambered down from the harpsichord. The dining room had seen better days, but it shouldn't be too difficult for some of the villagers to repair, he thought. And he had never felt so exhilarated! It had _worked_. He was brilliant. He hadn't shamed himself—Ludevic would hear of this, at least, he had to! Finally, Mummy and Daddy would have to admit that he was talented, brilliant, not worth relegating to the _harpsichord bench_.

He looked eagerly over towards his parents. "How was that?" he said. "Wasn't it marvelous? Look how well he balanced! And how strong he was! I wasn't expecting my very first creation to be so capable of destruction!"

His mother's face seemed frozen. " _You_ were responsible for this, Geralf?"

He felt his smile slipping a little. "Yes, of course—I mean—I've been working on it for months. Wasn't it—wasn't it beautiful?"

"Ignatius," his father said, and it took him a moment to realize it was the actual servant who was being summoned. "Hold him still. I won't be responsible for what I do otherwise."

"F-Father?"

Gisa sighed. "You're an idiot," she murmured to him. "Did you really think they would care? Why do you think I never show them the ghouls I raise?"

Bile rose in Geralf's throat, and he took a step back as Ignatius approached him and Father reached for the cane he kept at the side of the room. "You're going to _beat_ me for this genius? No—I won't _let_ you!" Ignatius reached for him, and Geralf struck his hand away. It was easier than he'd expected. He was trembling with adrenaline. "I am an adult now! I am a _scientist_!"

"You are a child." His father got to his feet, and Geralf couldn't stop himself from flinching.

"No, I'm not!" he said, angrily. "Didn't you see that?"

"A child's display. A child's understanding of the consequences."

"There was some destruction, but nothing difficult to fix. Please, Father, can't you see how brilliant that was?" Once again, he danced out of Ignatius's reach, but that brought him within arms' length of the cane, and Father brought it down on his outstretched hand with a crack. The pain shuddered through his arm, and suddenly the situation snapped into focus in a way it hadn't before. "Father—don't, please—" He'd never seen his father so angry before, and he was suddenly rooted to the spot as the man advanced on him. Another blow landed on his ear—Father's hand this time, not the cane—and Geralf fell to his knees, instinctively trying to shield his face.

Sudden, sharp pain cracked through his ribs—had Father _kicked_ him? He heard his mother's voice, "Gerald, really, that's too much!"

"I'm tired of his games," Father snarled, his voice cold and hard, and Geralf whimpered. The cane came down on his back again, and he was too shocked and frightened to pull away. He tried to get air, but he couldn't quite seem to breathe properly, pain prickling through his ribs. "Perhaps now he'll learn to behave."

"Daddy!" Gisa sounded almost frightened, or perhaps angry.

"Be quiet, Gisa." Geralf often tried to focus on something else when Father grew this angry, but he couldn't seem to do so now.

"Mummy, make him stop!" Yes, Geralf thought vaguely through the pain, body shuddering from blow after blow, Gisa almost sounded frightened. Unusual for her. Usually she was far too much of a brat to be afraid of anything.

Someone was make a loud, wailing noise. It was rather distressing. Not Gisa, though, he could hear her footsteps hurrying away down the passage, and he curled in on himself, because it just kept hurting more, and he needed it to stop, please stop, please, Daddy, please, don't—don't—

He heard Mummy move as well, and for one blessed moment, his father wasn't hitting him anymore, and then he heard, "Don't interfere, Gretchen," and the cold, hissing sound of his mother's magic evaporating in the wake of his father's counterspell. Geralf started crawling away, although the movement hurt his ribs. He'd made it to the wall when his father's hand on his shoulder spun him around and slammed him backward. He choked on a cry of pain, and his head hit something solid behind him with a crack.

"Daddy, stop it!" Gisa was back. Gisa was back, and she was—she was _defending_ him? That was it. He was delirious and probably dying. Father was going to kill him before he even had a chance to refine his craft.

"Gisa, what are you—"

"Put him down!" Geralf squinted, barely managing to make out Gisa, standing by one of Father's prize tapestry with an oil lamp raised in her hands. "Put him down right now!"

"Gisa, go to your room," Father snapped. His hand pressed Geralf harder against the wall.

Gisa didn't reply, just raised the lantern and smashed it into the wall. Geralf stared in amazement as the fire leapt up from it, little bright rivulets of flame surging up along the tapestry. Father gave a wordless shout and dropped him, and Geralf's head hit the floor, darkness swirling in front of his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, he could see almost nothing. Smoke was everywhere, stinging his eyes, making it impossible for him to draw a breath without going into a coughing fit, which jarred his painful ribs. There was heat rolling over him, and he had the vague notion that he should probably not stay in here.

It was difficult to get onto his hands and knees, but he managed it eventually. His head was wobbling a bit, and the world seemed to be shifting as well, or perhaps that was just the smoke. If he were to crawl forward, he reasoned, he ought to eventually come to the hole that his Ignatius had made in the wall, which he would then be able to make his way out of. Unfortunately, it was rather more difficult than he might have hoped. He had crawled three or four steps when he heard a groaning, cracking noise above him, and he wasn't able to move entirely out of the way in time.

Something burning hot and heavy landed a glancing blow on the side of his head, and he cried out, falling on his face. Half his vision disappeared in a sea of red, and he tried to wipe at his eye, but he couldn't seem to clear it. He needed to keep moving, but he didn't feel as if he could. He could barely even breathe. Just like Gisa, he thought bitterly, turning a rescue attempt into an inferno that would kill him anyway. What a way to die—unfulfilled, unappreciated. Tears welled up in his eyes, and that was worse, because it stung.

He heard thumping that sound like loud, clumsy footsteps, and he managed to make a sound, though it wasn't nearly as sophisticated as actually forming the words to call for help, nothing but an ugly, strangled groan. The footsteps moved abruptly nearer, and Geralf could only hope it was not his father, who would probably leave him to burn to death at this point. But no—the huge, misshapen feet did not belong to Father or Mother or any relative of his—in fact— "Ignatius?" he croaked.

The stitched-together creature bent down and made a soft noise in its throat. It gathered Geralf up in its arms, standing up to its full height. Geralf moaned slightly as his painful ribs were jolted, coughed as the air grew hotter and smokier around him, but he still felt a sudden swell of pride. Ignatius had come back for him. His creation was brilliant enough that it had returned to rescue its creator! If only—if only he lived long enough to show this to Ludevic.

Somewhere someone was swearing, a low list of hissed epithets in between coughs. A few more steps, and he could see his sister, trapped beneath a large beam of wood that had fallen across her legs. "Do you—" he coughed, "—need some help, sister dear?"

"Get me out of here, Geralf!"

"That's not very polite, you know," he managed tiredly, but he was hurting too much to snark at her properly. "Ignatius, get her out of there," he ordered. Ignatius made a strangled noise that he interpreted as a noise of assent, bent down, and ripped the beam away in a shower of sparks. Gisa shrieked and lashed out as it lifted her out and placed her on its shoulder.

"Gisa, don't damage my masterpiece," Geralf said faintly. "Talk about ungrateful."

"Shut up, this is your fault," snarled Gisa, kicking poor Ignatius in the shoulder. It gave her an aggrieved look. "Why did you have to pick tonight to show off, Geralf?"

"I was going to get Ludevic's attention," Geralf mumbled. Ignatius picked its way across the floor and stumbled slightly, one of its several feet knocking against something. Geralf looked down to see his father's unconscious form lying huddled across the floorboards. Ignatius paused questioningly.

Geralf gave it almost a full second's consideration. "Keep going," he told Ignatius, and the monstrosity shook itself and began to move forward. Geralf neither looked back nor up to meet his sister's eyes. For a few minutes, he simply drifted in the choking haze. His ribs were very painful.

Eventually, they tottered out of the building into the cold night air. Geralf sucked in a clear breath, and instantly started coughing. "Damnation," he managed through chattering teeth, and then he looked back over Ignatius' shoulder and paused, the breath cold and still in his lungs.

Their parents' mansion—their home—was a solid mass of flames. Geralf stared at it for a long minute, then realized that it was looming too large because one of his eyes was either swollen shut or blocked with blood. He sighed. Perhaps he ought to feel sad, but all he felt was hollow and empty. And also rather in pain. He'd need to find a quiet space to bind up his ribs and, more importantly, reassemble his laboratory. Everything was burning now, all his plans for the last months going up in crackling fire. But Ignatius, at least, was unharmed.

"You haven't even thanked me," Gisa snapped irritably. "I saved your life, guts for brains."

Geralf glared at her. "You nearly killed me, yourself, and Ignatius with a fire," he retorted. "You _did_ kill Mummy and Daddy."

Gisa made a bristling noise, which rather impressed Geralf. " _You_ killed Daddy," she said sweetly. "You could have told your zombie to drag him out of the fire."

He went quiet at that. "Let's go find a place to sleep. My ribs hurt."

"Fine, be a whiny baby about killing Daddy," Gisa said. Geralf sniffed, finding to his horror that he actually was close to tears. "Oh, Avacyn," Gisa said. "I'd have done the same thing, anyway, he was being awful."

"Ignatius," Geralf muttered, "Can you please find us some shelter?"

"Oh, don't sulk," Gisa chided him, but Ignatius began to walk once again, and Geralf sighed and laid back in Ignatius' arms, staring upward at the night sky. Good. The moon was gibbous. The last thing they needed right about now was a pack of werewolves coming after them. But, no. This was good, Geralf thought vaguely, sleepily, as his thoughts began to fragment with exhaustion. This was good. This was safe.


End file.
